


Wish Fulfillment

by prestissimo



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lucifer (Comic), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Aziraphale is a Principality, Doppelganger!Crowley, Dream Travel, Emotional Constipation, Everyone is terrified of Mazikeen, Fantasy, Flying Markets, Footnotes, Hallucinations, Humor, Implied Relationship, Interdimensional Travel, London Below, Lucifer cameos, M/M, Madness, Magic, Magic Realism, Sandman cameos, Wishes, angel!Crowley, doppelgangers, dream walking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-14
Updated: 2009-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:25:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5376890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prestissimo/pseuds/prestissimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale should know better than go to London Below and take anything a giant Enoki mushroom vendor offers. Now Crowley is an angel and the two old friends must journey through the realms of Delirium, Dream, Pharamond, and Lucifer himself to put things to rights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish Fulfillment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iblamebroadway](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=iblamebroadway).



> For lj user iblamebroadway: You requested something exploring Crowley’s tragic history and the jittery mess that he is, tears as well as laughter, some Sandman universe, and a plot. It was hard and the mood is a little bumpy, but I hope I’ve done a little of each, and that your holiday is a happy one.

The angel rubbed his hands together to kindle some warmth against the cold reception of the day, but he was in a rotten mood and little would aid him here in the City. Anonymous suits sluiced past him in the dreary morning as he stood on Threadneedle Street, trying to forget why he was there.

Slowly, he manoeuvred himself so that he could see St. Paul's but also avoid looking at the Gherkin. He closed his eyes and stepped backwards. His back brushed briefly against the wall behind him, then percolated through to the other side. (1)

> (1. Like coffee, only not.)

He turned around, still holding his breath—because there are some rules even an angel must follow—and opened his eyes. The sky was the blue of a scimitar in the desert night, and the clouds were baby's breath and wrinkled aluminium. He could hear them crinkling in the wind. Before him was the Greater Floating Market of London.

He walked down the rope bridges, ducking the gilded oars of Flying Dutchmen as they sailed past with sparks of lightning. Baby dragons, their wings tied to the wood planks with fairy lights, snapped idly at his shoes. Further on in the bazaar, a blue-skinned Muscovite and a lantern-jawed Walking Woman bargained over a slightly used, like new first kiss. The musk and spice of exotic worlds and alternate dimensions puffed into the angel's face, and for a moment he forgot about his morning quarrel.

“Gangway!” The people on the bridge scattered as a dense, enormous fleet of winged mice zipped past. Thousands of furry bodies flew through the air, beating tiny mouse-sized wings in formation. The ropes groaned and twisted, and an octopus holding her bundle of shopping crashed into Aziraphale, sending him over the edge towards the fathomless mists of magic below.

Instinctively his wings burst from his back, tearing his jacket open and slowing his descent. With a sigh of relief he gave a stretch of his muscles and soared upwards. Nobody gave him a second look as he landed safely on the next platform.

Sometimes, when he longed for the Silver City, he would come here and marvel at how it was everything his home was not. Colourful. Changing. Exciting. There were other words for it that his brethren would use. Tainted. Temporary. Fallen. And with that he thought back to his morning with the Epipremnum areum(2).

> (2. Devil’s Ivy.)

He probably shouldn't have said any of it. It had all come out wrong. Aziraphale almost thought he had flipped a switch and suddenly turned Crowley off.

The demon had lit his plant on _fire_.

He had folded his arms and calmly watched Aziraphale yank the plant down. The flames reflected in his dark glasses, his face expressionless while Aziraphale tried to extinguish it. He was suddenly not the Crowley whom Aziraphale had come to know over these millennia. He said nothing, did nothing, not even when the angel shouted at him with tears streaming down his face. It was in fear and sorrow that Aziraphale left his flat. He had headed straight for the bazaar of the Floating Market.

He did not know what he was looking for, and wandered with the aimlessness of those who want something to fix a world that has become foreign to them.

“Oi!” something called to him, and he turned to look down at a three-eyed beaglefish who was tending a stall of emotion. “That's some nice frustration you got simmering there. I'll have it off you for a lullaby.” Offended and annoyed, Aziraphale snapped his pinfeathers brusquely at the offer, making the beaglefish dive under his counter. “All right, I’ll give you a pop song!” he wheedled, voice muffled in his hiding spot(B).

> (B. This would have been a steal. Aziraphale’s frustration was worth a rock ballad at least, with a guitar solo thrown in. We’re talking ‘Free Bird’ here.)

The large Enoki in the next stall laughed, and beckoned the angel over with something glowing in its hand. It was wearing the tartan of the Skye clan.

“Hey good looking, I've got something for you,” it said, whisper soft, and Aziraphale could hear the obscene susurrations of its asci. It opened its soft brown hand to reveal a cheap yellow star made out of clay. “Take a bit, just a bit, free, completely free.”

Aziraphale vaguely felt he was being mocked, and the indignity brought heat to his cheeks. A passing Synaesthetizoid tasted the air, warm with his embarrassment. The morning's fight had thrown him off balance. It wasn't fair, he knew, but sometimes he wished Crowley had never Fallen. It would have made things easier. If Crowley hadn't thrown him out, Aziraphale wouldn't be standing here, feeling like a fungus was having him on.

He grasped a corner of the star and broke off a small glittering piece with barely concealed disdain. Cheap white glitter tumbled out from the fracture, far more than the diminutive ornament could contain, but Aziraphale was an angel and could see what was going on.

“What did you do?” he demanded, staring down at his piece of the ornament in surprise. It still pulsed faintly with a very personal, very intimate power. It made his wings itch.

“Just a little gift, guava,” the fungus said with a laugh, spraying him with spores in such a vulgar way that Aziraphale backed away abruptly, almost treading upon an diplomatic contingent of mice dragging a dead raven.

“Watch where you're going!” their aerial escort screamed.

“I beg your pardon!” Aziraphale exclaimed with a start, unaccustomed to being addressed by Tower ravens moonlighting as bodyguards. He bowed until the retinue passed. When he turned around, the traveling stalls had picked up their tentacles and wandered off to another part of the bazaar.

“Blast,” he muttered under his breath.

The piece of clay was still in his hand, and he stuck it in his pocket, unsure what to do with it. There was no magic in it anymore, in anything. Crowley was furious at him, and Aziraphale didn't even know why. With hope in his heart, he purchased a lily-of-the-valley from a licenced crone and wandered out of the Market. He could gift it to Crowley in apology, and all would be smoothed over, and then they could do the Ritz tonight.

When he got to Crowley's flat he was surprised when he was buzzed in at once. Usually he had to wait a perfunctory four buzzes before the demon felt he had done his duty against the forces of Heaven. They had discussed this at length over a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé and had ultimately decided on four.

The moment his footstep hit the landing before Crowley's flat, the door swung open and Aziraphale dropped the houseplant. It shattered, unnoticed, on the floor as Aziraphale stared at Crowley with his mouth open.

Instead of yellow snake slits, Crowley's eyes were a brilliant green.

“Aziraphale! Do come in!” Crowley exclaimed as he miracled the mess away. He grasped an elbow and guided Aziraphale into his flat.

“You...your eyes...” Aziraphale stuttered as he sat down heavily on the aerodynamic sofa.

“Er, yes?” Crowley said, whipping out his mirrored sunglasses and inspecting himself in them.

“Have they always been green?” Aziraphale asked weakly. Crowley looked at him carefully, and then patted his knee.

“I'd better put a kettle on,” he said.

“Never mind that. What's happened to you? Where did all your plants go?” Aziraphale nearly shrieked, standing up and going to the bare windowsill where the plants used to stand at attention.

“Plants? I've never had any plants. They need too much attention,” Crowley said dismissively.

“Don't be childish. You have the best plants in all of London. Just because you set fire to that ivy—”

“Set fire? What do you take me for, a demon? Why would I want to set fire to a defenceless plant? It isn’t as if they even do anything, they just _sit_ there. Perhaps you ought to sit down.”

“I do not want to sit down. You had...something is very wrong. It's...I know what it is,” Aziraphale said, his hand going into his pocket and pulling out the clay fragment.

They stared at it, but it failed to do anything entertaining.

“I'm afraid I need to go. It's my shift at the shelter. Why don't you just rest here, have a kip,” Crowley said, going to his hatstand and putting on his coat.

“What ghastly business are you up to at the shelter?” Aziraphale asked, entirely out of his element. He froze when Crowley put a hand on his cheek, his green eyes wide and hypnotic.

“My dear,” Crowley said in a kind voice that Aziraphale longed for, but certainly not right now. “As committed as humans are to destroying themselves, every little bit we do helps. I volunteer at the shelter every week. Good needs a personal touch, and as much as I love you, I think you forget that sometimes.”

“B-but, you always said we had to spread our efforts outside of one soul at a time. And you told me that demons can't feel love!” Aziraphale was in a near panic, and completely missed the part where Crowley leaned in and kissed him tenderly. He gave Aziraphale a worried but loving smile.

“You're not making any sense. I'm not a demon. I'm an angel.”

 

* * *

 

“See you next week, Anthony darling,” the girl at the shelter said, giving the two of them a wink. “You take care of him, Mr Fell! So lovely to meet you!”

“Good-bye, Clarissa,” Crowley waved as he hooked elbows with the bewildered Aziraphale and guided him to the Bentley. That hadn't changed, at least. But Aziraphale had just sat through two hours of Crowley being kind and considerate and sympathetic to people without even the least bit of tempting. Only the trouble was, he didn't seem to really care. He went through the motions, did exactly what would be expected of an angel, but it was done as perfunctorily as someone taking out the bins. Crowley took pride in his work, had spent hours in the muck getting the M25 right, and was really proud of Welsh language television. He'd even attended all the planning committees for Spinningfields in Manchester.

This Crowley went around looking nice _at_ people. As they walked through St. James', Crowley smiled at everybody and radiated…niceness. It was pleasant, Aziraphale reflected, that he didn't go around sinking ducks, but Aziraphale was beginning to enjoy squabbling over an increasingly indignant duck bobbing up and down in the water. He surreptitiously eyed the not-demon next to him, then very carefully sank the current target of their bread.

“Oh dear,” Crowley said, blinking at the faint ripples where a duck had just been. “That's just too bad.”

“Aren't you going to save it?” Aziraphale demanded, starting to panick again. Crowley usually revived unfortunate animals Aziraphale was careless enough to have man-slaughtered. Animal-slaughtered. Suffocated (ø).

> (ø. But that was only the one and the dove settled down to have a nice family in Basingstoke.)

“Not if it's ineffability. Rain falls. People die. Ducks sink,” Crowley said, tossing the last of their bread in the water and shaking his head as Aziraphale revived the duck. “We shouldn't defy His will. You know it's only going to be another duck another day, my dear.”

“Stop calling me that!” Aziraphale snapped, patience broken. When Crowley went to grasp his hand, he shook him off roughly. “You're all…wrong!”

“Beg pardon?” Crowley asked mildly.

“I am going to fix this. This is not right,” Aziraphale said to himself, no longer caring what Crowley was saying. “You are coming with me.”

They were back in the Greater Floating Market with little ceremony, but the Enoki's stall had disappeared. The bazaar was closed at this time of day anyway. To his credit, Aziraphale very carefully did not curse. In frustration he flung the clay star at a nearby wall, where it cracked and burst into a million pieces, forming a door in the masonry.

“Nice invitation,” Crowley remarked. “Still don't know what you're looking for.”

“Just…come with me,” Aziraphale said, linking their fingers together. He opened the door and pulled them through into a world of twisting, swirling colour.

 

* * *

 

you're a rainbow fish swimming through the air, ducking a ticking flying sundial when you spot the engraving in enormous letters of 'tempus frangit' and you wonder why you haven't any aunts to tell these amusing stories to just as the smell of sour wine sweeps past you giggling. your eye catches your own hand holding another bifurcated into two beings with citrine and with emerald for sparkling jewel eyes and as the violet ice cream spoils your apron again and ostriches turn round upon your dress you call out “Crowley?”

sickening mouse shapes and sad voices reply “What the hell is going on? Where are we?” but the green one says “You're a demon! What are you doing with my form?”

tangled

sparkling

naissance of a riot just being born into a caterpillar backwards not quite—

“Sod off,” the real one snarls then mushes back into spotted dick and Turkish delight spins towards a snowdrift made of teddy bears asking for their mummies that have been trapped in tombs with lapis lazuli pizza pies so you call out “Lady Delirium,” trying to get a grip inside this cone of papayas and grasping at Crowley again because you can't let him go even if

“HeEee heEee!” says a short young lady with multi-coloured hair and mis-matched eyes of blue and green. “WhY doN't yOU look liKe tHE flyiNg thiNgies? Um. Hi!” The world stills for a moment and it sickens you.

“Lady Delirium, we are honoured to attend you in your realm.” The colours pick you up and carry you into a somersaulting bow the youngest of the Endless giggles and says with iridescent bubbles “I was trAinINg wiTH My doGgie to be a kaNGarOo. He was jUST hERe a mOMent AgO. MAYbe.” The girl looks around, her hair swarming around her and giving off frog-shaped sparkles that plink against Crowley's sunglasses when she notices the two Crowleys and tilts her head to one side shifting your view into the ocean where birds swim and you have always been a langoustine working as a tax accountant “WhY arE yoU tWO peOPle? I am tWo peOPLe too. Once. I had a dress. I was very pretty. But that was a long time ago, Son of Heaven, before you even made the Earth.” She pauses. “WhAT wAS I SAYing? wE WErE in thE wiND aNd blOwiNg bUBBLes and I caMe heRe beCAuSe evEryTHing wAs brOkEn aNd I diDn'T haVE a doGgiE thEN.” She folds her arms and eyes her visitors critically. “yOu diDN't coME to mY paRTy. YoU diDn'T sEe.”

Crowley struggles against his döppelganger you briefly think about attending that waitressing for cats lesson because what could it hurt if the child drove her lorry into the dole queue Sally was asking you to finish paying the bills anyway and the council was going to knock down your neighbour’s lawn once the turquoises had finished tasting like khaki and gravel “it waS brOkeN anYway,” she sniffs. “and tHEn you wERe brOKen and tHe skIEs wEnt SPogGly AnD leAkeD flYinG thIngiES all thE wAy doWn tO thE dARk pLaceS. I DoN't LikE tHe dArk pLacEs wHeRe yOu livEd, CrAwLy.”

“You and me both sister,” Crowley mutters, ducking a vicious eye-poke from not-Crowley.

“Lady,” you try and again and again and again for ages though cousin isn't listening and the farm is drowning in your cream of mushroom soup. “We are looking for something. I think.” that is a leaf there is nothing you need beyond beets and curry sunshine streaming down but who is this emerald next to you glittering dangerously at the butter slough you reach for but your hand is an octopus and you can’t remember the words to speak it back into nighttime cement

“DiD yOU loSe soMeoNE? I lOsT soMeOne and my BroTHer hElpED me. He'S scArY soMetimes and soMetIMes he'S nOt. BuT i geT that WoRd that meAnS yOu caN't fInd whEre peOplE are aNd he hElps. He heLPed me fiND soMeoNE buT loTs of pEOple expLodEd and wEnt wibBLy,” Delirium muses. “MaYbE yOu caN aSK hIM iF he IS hOmE.” The helm of the Dream King appears, larger than life.

“Thank you, Lady,” you sing out, sounding like marzipan smells, opening an eye hatch that is as tall as a man but you’re not sure why or how to slip through

“I hope you find your dog,” Crowley remarks as he pushes you

They pop from swirling colour onto dark grass and swirling mist. The coolness is refreshing after the mad chaos of Delirium's realm. It is midnight in the Dreaming, and the castle gates are just visible in the distance. The Prince of Stories is at home.

“What are we doing here, my dear?” Crowley, green-eyed angel again, asks.

“I am just glad we got out of there alive. I was beginning to forget what I was,” Aziraphale says, picking himself up and starting towards the castle. The guardians on the gate's lintel raise their heads sleepily, wyvern, griffin, and hippogriff three.

“Aziraphael, Principality of the Eastern Gate, desires an audience with your master by the Lady Delirium's leave,” he says in a voice he hasn't used in years, his words rising in curlicues above him. “As does my companion.”

“My master welcomes you, Sons of Heaven,” the wyvern says. “He bids you continue on the path to the throne room, and urges you not to stray.” The gates swing open and the guardians stare after them curiously as they pass.

Because the Dream King does not like other magicks or tricks of deception, Aziraphale and Crowley both unfurl their wings.

Aziraphale keeps to the path, but it is hard. There are hallways and archways and acqueducts, and once Aziraphale thinks he hears Crowley's voice behind a bookcase, pleading for his help. He tightens his wing muscles, but he can’t help but stop at the sound of Crowley, begging and crying for Aziraphale to help him. What if the real Crowley was trapped in a nightmare in the Dreaming?

“Crowley…” he whispers, but not-Crowley pokes him delicately from behind, and he grits his teeth. The path to Dream’s throne is littered with nightmares and rogue creatures. If he went after what he thought was Crowley, he’d be lost forever. They soldier on until they reach the stained-glass doors of the throne room.

“ **My welcome to you, Sons of Heaven** ,” Dream says upon his white throne. His black eyes echo out from his paper white face. He is toying idly with a red rose made of rubies. His chair is close to the ground, upon a simple white marble pedestal. He is the boy Daniel and yet the Lord of Dreams at the same time. Talking to the Endless has never been easy, and Aziraphale does not envy their family affairs.

“Lord Shaper, we thank you for your hospitality. We traveled here from Lady Delirium's realm at her suggestion,” Aziraphale says. Crowley remains silent, and Aziraphale realises that he is floating above the ground as if it ought not touch his feet. It has been long since he forswore such...arrogance. Being among humans for so long has rubbed off on him, but this version of Crowley toes the company line perfectly. Observing only, his feet never touching the base earth. He almost snorts in derision. Base earth his Wilde first edition! (6)

> (6. Which Aziraphale doesn’t actually have, unless you count that wild night with the Devonshire cream and Crowley wearing a chandelier he swore was Queen Victoria, but that’s another footnote in another book in another library.)

“ **You have the marks of a pilgrimage about you** ,” Dream tells him. “ **What is it you are searching for?** “

“I want to know what is wrong with him,” Aziraphale explains. “But we angels do not dream, so I do not know why we are here.”

“ **But demons do dream, Aziraphael** ,” Dream says, coming down from his throne to look up at the hovering Crowley. He is silent for a moment. “ **I dislike little magicks in my realm, but your journey asks you to carry this with you. Go to Pharamond and tell him I sent you.** “

“Many thanks, Lord Shaper,” Crowley says uncertainly from his perch in the air. He is not stupid enough to question Dream, nor to point out that they are not within his jurisdiction to command. They are at the heart of the Dreaming, where reality conforms to Morpheus' will. There is nothing here that they could do should they displease him. He turns to leave.

“But Dream-King…” Aziraphale cannot resist or stop himself from asking this. He has already strayed so far off the official Heavenly path in consorting with Crowley that this broach of decorum is the least of his present worries. And this Dream is much more forgiving than his predecessor. “What does…what _did_ Crowley dream about?”

Dream gives a secret smile, as if he knows something they don't. This is probably true.

“ **Home. Only in dreams that can he return from exile and feel that he belongs.** “

 

* * *

 

“I feel like a cardboard cutout,” Crowley muttered as they walked to Farrell Travel Agencies.

“Will you dissolve in the rain?” Aziraphale asked. Being in Ireland, let alone Dublin, had always made Crowley nervous before. (%)

> (%. Naomh Pádraig. Junior Pelagian Scouts Adventure. Freak lightning. Don’t ask.)

“No, I feel all thin and papery. Like I'm not quite real. What was all that business with the Endless?”

“Even you can tell something's not right. You're not an angel, you're a demon. I want to know what's going on.”

“I don't remember this. I didn't Fall. It was just wake up one morning and suddenly all your buddies are somewhere else and you've got a backlog of plants to work on.”

Aziraphale was silent. They didn't discuss the Fall. It wasn't really polite.

“And why do you call me Crowley anyway? That's not my name. It's—” His mouth was quickly covered by a plump, well-manicured hand.

“Don't,” Aziraphale warned, steel in his blue eyes. “I don't want to know it. It was taken away from him and I don't want to know it if he didn't.” He looked away in the awkward silence that followed. They didn’t speak again until they reached Farell’s office.

“Hello my dear. How are you on this lovely day?” Crowley said to the receptionist, with such…perkiness he could have been on CBeebies.

“We're here to see Mr Farell,” Aziraphale announced.

“Well this is a surprise. Come in, come in. Crowley, lovely to see you,” the former Babylonian god said, receiving them with a warm smile. “Thanks for the tip off you gave me about the M4 last month, by the way. Margaret, these are my special guests. Make sure we’re not disturbed.”

“M4?” Aziraphale mouthed silently as they followed Pharamond to his private office. Crowley simply shrugged.

“Please, do sit. What can I do for you today?” Pharamond asked. He raised his eyebrows when Crowley removed his sunglasses. “I see. I thought I felt something off.”

“Dream sent us here. He said we were on a pilgrimage without knowing it,” Aziraphale explained.

“Ah, not 'we,' Aziraphael. Just you. I imagine you brought Crowley along for the ride,” Pharamond told him.

“He just grabbed me without explaining anything!” Crowley said.

“Tell me, Crowley, how did you feel about the Spanish Inquisition?” Pharamond asked, watching him closely. Normally the question would have made Crowley blanch and mumble something about having to go home and feed the plants.

“Oh, rather lovely win for our side, I think, if a bit lenient,” this Crowley said flippantly. The demon had drunk for a week. Aziraphale remembered. He was the one who had to pull him out of the wine barrel.

“Thousands of people died! They tortured and burned people!” Aziraphale gasped.

“Yes, but we got them in the end, didn't we? They converted and redeemed themselves through their punishments. I don't know why you're so upset. Humans will be humans. You and I didn't have anything to do with it,” not-Crowley replied.

“And the Apocalypse?” Pharamond said. “How do you feel about the world ending?”

“Oh Heaven will win and we'll all get to go home and all the sinners will be cast into Hell and all that prophetic stuff will end up all working out. I'm sure the Big Guy has something really pyrotechnic planned,” very-not-Crowley said, leaning back and linking his hands behind his head.

“Pyrotechnic...” Aziraphale echoed weakly. “What about all the humans? And...” he realised this Crowley had no hobbies. He didn't need them. Take away the Fall, and you had an angel who wasn't committed strongly either way but did his job. There wasn't any of that paranoid outrage that Crowley felt on behalf of himself and the humans, and that Aziraphale had come to find endearing.(¥)

> (¥. Though for the last time, Aziraphale was not going to humour Crowley into playing James Bond and tell people he got those bullet holes in the windshield from a car chase with a femme fatale in a Lambourgini. They were stick-on decals anyway. And no human would ever be insane enough to try to chase Crowley by automobile.)

“In that case,” Pharamond said, “I believe your plane to Los Angeles is waiting.”

“Who's in America that we would want to see?”

“You have a demon problem. Who knows demons best, whether for his own motives or no? Lord Lucifer, of course,” Pharamond answered. “You're going to see the Morningstar.”

 

* * *

 

“Let's just go home, Aziraphale. All this traveling unsettles me,” not-Crowley said, tugging on his elbow. They stood at the doors to Lux, knocking even though the nightclub wasn't open yet.

“Rrres?” A woman in grey with a white mask over half her face opened the door. Crowley drew back instinctively.

“Mazikeen, Daughter of Lilith, begone—” he began, but Aziraphale clamped a hand tightly over his mouth and pushed him aside.

“Sorry, I know you're not open, but could we see your employer? We're rather wondering if he might be free,” Aziraphale said politely. The Lilim gazed upon the two with scorn, Crowley especially, then admitted them silently.

“Wrrait heerr,” said Mazikeen, setting aside the tablecloths she was spreading. The nightclub was dark, but the figure under the spotlight at the piano is unmistakeable. She approached and bowed, and Aziraphale kept his hand over Crowley's mouth in terror as he blindly hoped that Crowley would not call him things like 'Satan' or 'Little Horn.'

The figure rose and approached them, his dinner jacket sleek and his blonde hair aflame with glints of red. He seemed amused as he looked from one to the other, and then spoke with a voice as cultured and charming as Aziraphale remembered.

“ _There is no need to tremble so,_ “ Lucifer said as he lit a cigarette. He offered them one each. Trembling, they both took one from the most powerful being in Creation next to the Presence. “ _Pharamond called ahead. Why should I concern myself with the Fallen? I'm in my retirement._ “

“I was hoping you could restore him. I don't know what happened,” Aziraphale began.

“ _Is that so, Aziraphael. Heaven must be slacking if a Principality can't recognise the work of an Enoki wish-granter. Unless that's the old plausible deniability party line again,_ “ Lucifer replied dryly. “ _Why would you return him to damnation?_ “

“Because he’s...” Aziraphale faltered, “he’s not himself. He doesn’t care about anything! I just want him back!”

As Aziraphale spluttered, Lucifer gave a wave of his hand, gently knocking Crowley into a chair and unconscious.

“What have you done?” Aziraphale demanded, all fear lost as he went and shook Crowley. The demon, or not-demon, was unresponsive. “If you've hurt him in any way, you'll have me to answer to!”

“Rrat did hryuu shaay?” Mazikeen asked, a knife at Aziraphale's throat faster than he could blink. Lucifer raised an eyebrow, then tapped some ash off his cigarette.

“ _Interesting. Release him, Mazikeen,_ “ was all he said, then sat down before Aziraphale as the latter massaged his neck and eyed the Lilim warily. “ _I have restored him, and a Fall, especially a second one, takes a lot out of you. Innocence and trust, for one. Why did you wish him to be an angel?_ “

“We had a fight. He was...I'd never seen him so angry before. I didn't think...” Aziraphale stopped, and looked at his unconscious companion.

“Rrat did hryuu shaay to hrrim?” asked Mazikeen with a scowl. She had not considered Crowley worth a glance in Hell, but hearing the angel's story meant the tablecloths could wait.(*)

> (*. When she left Hell she had pledged her loyalty and her blade to her liege lord wherever he would go. She had not thought to figure in napkin rings.)

“I told him...” Aziraphale looked down, ashamed, but he had to confess to someone. “I told him that he didn't have to be so mean to his plants if he wasn’t a real demon, not really.”

“Rru rizhiot,” Mazikeen snorted derisively.

“ _Being a ‘real demon,’ as you laughably put it, is not a matter of what he does. It is a matter of betrayal,_ ” Lucifer explained in a burst of unexpected generosity. “ _Crowley never raised a hand against his brethren or Him, and yet my Father cast him down in the ensuing bureaucratic mess. He did not mean to Fall._ ”

“Urk,” Crowley grunted, sitting up and looking around him blearily. His eyes, to Aziraphale’s relief, were yellow with snake slits again. “Aaah! Er...hi boss. Er. Lord. I mean...Lucifer.” He almost fell off his chair and just managed to stay on it by holding on to Aziraphale’s arm.

“ _Stay as long as you like._ ” Lucifer stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “ _I have other matters._ ” He spared them a glance of amusement as Crowley tried his best to hide behind absolutely nothing, then left for upstairs.

“Crrawrry,” Mazikeen said with a smirk, approaching them with her knife in hand.

“Long time no see, Mazikeen. Hey, I like the new mask, it looks good on you. Please don’t hurt me,” Crowley gibbered, breathing fast from the terror of being in the same room as his old boss. It was entirely unfair that he should wake up in a foreign place with sulfur on his tongue and be greeted by the malevolent homicidal consort of his old employer, not to mention said old employer himself.

She bent down so that they were face to face, then said, “rris rizhiot rrust dahmed rryu rragain. Haff frun.” Mazikeen picked up her tablecloths and went back to setting up the nightclub.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, hoping the angel could make the world sensible again.

“I made a mistake. I made a stupid wish and it, it _un_ -Felled you somehow, and we came here and I asked Lucifer to turn you back,” Aziraphale said, wincing at the expression on Crowley’s face.

“Damned me again,” Crowley breathed, echoing Mazikeen’s words.

“It’s not what it sounds like. It was so awful—“

“It was so awful that I wasn’t Fallen anymore?” Crowley demanded, standing up and backing away from Aziraphale. “How terrible that I wasn’t living in constant terror of going back to Hell to stoke up the home fires or better yet, be _on_ hellfire! Oh yes, I love wondering when Hastur’s going to catch up with me and if Dagon’s going to give me another assignment in Dis to make up my monthly quota! Did you want to see me wince at every radio static? Did that amuse you?”

Aziraphale, who hadn’t seen him this angry since Hiroshima and was getting desperate, tried to grab him. Normally grabbing a snake would be a mistake, but Aziraphale had had centuries to learn, and grabbed him by the back of the neck.

“I wanted _you_! All of you, the damned, the flash, the bastard, all of it!” Aziraphale shouted. But the spell broke, and Crowley shoved him away.

“It’s not that easy. It wasn’t that way yesterday,” Crowley hissed, pupils slitted. “You said my plants didn’t matter! You called me a demon like it didn’t matter! Like the Fall didn’t just take me apart and put me together wrong!”

“That’s not...I didn’t mean _you_ didn’t matter,” Aziraphale said with a groan. “I just didn’t know why—”

“Because this is all I’ve got!” Crowley said, his voice breaking for a second. “When this is all over, where do you think I’ll go? You, you can just go back to Heaven and sing hosannas. Me, this is the only life I’ve _got_. The rest of it is just eternity with Beelzebub breathing down my back.”

Sometimes all you have is houseplants to give you meaning.

To make you feel at least you’re in control of _something_.

They stared at each other in shocked silence.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly. He forced himself to look up at the searing yellow eyes he had fought for through Delirium and Dream and Devil. “I went to get you back because that wasn’t you as an angel. It wasn’t you _at all_.”

“What was me then? Which version did you want, Aziraphale?” Crowley demanded. “The one that never Fell? The one who picks up a tyre iron to defend humanity against the Powers? Maybe you want me just to burn plants but not sink ducks or tie up telephone systems or—”

“Oh shut up. Don’t you see?” Aziraphale asked. “I wouldn’t want to go to Heaven without the real you there.” Something Dream said came back to him. “If I dreamed of home, you would be there. It wouldn’t matter where we were or what we were.”

“Rry rrhoad,” Mazikeen said with a roll of her eyes. “Rru rrar roth rizhiots.” She grabbed them by the scruff of their collars and threw them out of the nightclub. “Rroad rrirrance!”

“Really, she didn’t have to be so rough,” Aziraphale complained mildly, rubbing his neck as the door slammed behind them.

“Yes, it’s a change from when she used to just disembowel me,” Crowley said. “Did you mean what you said in there?”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said earnestly. “And I am sorry for what I said. I didn’t know, I really didn’t. I just wish you had _told_ me you felt that way, Crowley.”

“No more wishesss,” Crowley said gruffly, putting his sunglasses on in the growing dusk. Aziraphale just looked so _pleading_. “I’m fine with thingsss asss they are.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “You mean, where you pretend you want to compare notes when you really want to go out for dinner? And then we go back to your place and pretend in the morning that we were too drunk to remember why or how we ended up in bed together?”

Crowley stopped walking.

“Er…”

“Maybe not exactly as they are then,” Aziraphale said with a smile, and took Crowley’s unresisting hand. “Let’s go home. I’ll put the kettle on.”


End file.
